※This article is repost of an article published on 2020 Apr 7
I sometimes get overwhelmed and start crying at totally ordinary slice-of-life scenes in anime. The conditions that connect “everyday life” to “tears” are complicated, and even I don’t fully understand them—but I think it’s the moment the combined score of the background, the dialogue, and the little gestures crosses some threshold, and the characters suddenly feel real.
Explaining it in vague terms won’t get us anywhere, so let’s jump straight to an example. I first realized I had this trait in episode 1 of AIR.
And not the finale, not the big emotional turns—the first ten minutes.
As you know, AIR is a Key work set in summer. It’s the kind of famous masterpiece packed with “tearjerker” mechanisms so densely it doesn’t even need an introduction. But none of the late-game stuff matters for what I’m talking about today. I’m going to talk only, only, about the opening ten minutes.
The story starts with the protagonist, Yukito Kunisaki, arriving in a quiet seaside country town.
Yukito, enjoying his broke solo trip, ends up collapsing along the coast from hunger.
When he wakes to the sound of birds, what he sees is a girl standing beside him: Misuzu Kamio. If you ignore the cold open and the OP, they meet in about thirty seconds, and you can already tell how much AIR is built around the relationship between these two.
Misuzu’s first line is her familiar little catchphrase: “Nihaha…”
A girl with long hair fluttering in the wind, giving you a weak, gentle smile. This “nihaha…” is just… perfect for a crying game. A laugh that’s this simple and yet this effective—holding both cuteness and fragility at the same time—feels like the 100-point answer.
And, you know, when something rough happens to me, I also end up laughing like “nihaha…” all the time.
You can hear it, and you can see it in the text, too—that sense that she’s forcing herself to smile just a little. She’s characterized by the way she laughs, practically on the level of ONE PIECE.
After “nihaha…,” she bows deeply and says, “Hello.”
After that oddly meaningful entrance, she hits you with politeness that doesn’t match the scene at all. In just two lines, the viewer already understands: Misuzu is a little… off. A strange kid.
Then Misuzu crouches down, holding her skirt in place.
And at this point, honestly? I’m already crying.
Just from that gesture. I can’t explain why. A girl who’s said, like, two lines total crouches down—and tears start coming out.
And I wasn’t crying because I “knew what happens later” and was doing emotional hindsight math. No—I cried like this the first time I ever watched it. Not just AIR, either. I’ll cry at the beginning of a random slice-of-life anime too.
Meanwhile, in real life? I’ve basically never cried over something that happened to me, whether from emotion or sadness.
I don’t shed tears… because I’m an otaku… and nothing really happens in real life. There are no events.
Misuzu starts closing the distance while making small talk: “Are you alone?” “It’s hot, isn’t it?” And then she goes and decides, on her own, “You must be thirsty,” and runs off to buy juice. You can see her clumsiness, her earnestness, and—more than anything—how badly she wants to talk to someone. You don’t know what her goal is, but she doesn’t feel like a bad kid.
Her odd behavior continues. She keeps sticking to Yukito as he walks.
“Won’t you go to the beach?”
“Why…?”
“Because I want to play.”
Yukito’s suspicion keeps building, and eventually he snaps with a hostile, “Huh?”
And Misuzu just… smiles.
No words. Just a smile. Just laughing.
“Yesterday… the kids were playing on that beach. It looked so fun, and I kept thinking… I want to play too. The whole time. Right there beside you while you were sleeping.”
Misuzu keeps following him. There are lots of long-shot cuts, letting you feel the town’s air and space. Two people who still don’t even know each other’s names— walking through a seaside town under a clear sky.
This is one of my favorite sequences.
A mysterious girl at your side, stupid little conversations, an endless stretch of nostalgic streets—that’s enough. That’s already enough. And all of this happens within three minutes of them meeting. In those three minutes, AIR delivers the entire essence of Misuzu’s charm in a concentrated dose.
So yeah. It turns out you can make visuals that keep stabbing an otaku’s tear ducts over and over—enough to make them start crying just from the atmosphere while waiting for instant noodles to finish.
“We’re friends. Nihaha. So… I want to play.”
“We don’t even know each other’s names.”
“I’m Misuzu Kamio. And you?”
“…Yukito Kunisaki.”
I LOVE this layout so much!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Before long, other characters show up, and the two-person world ends—after only ten minutes.
And I’ll say it again: none of this is about plot. The story isn’t even entering the room. I’m crying purely because this everyday beauty is that complete. I’ve watched “that famous ending” maybe once. But I’ll replay the opening ten minutes hundreds of times.
Honestly, it feels so finished that everything after it is almost… tacky. Like, wasn’t it already complete?
That air. That distance between the two of them. The background art and layouts drawn dense enough to soak in the world. Misuzu’s childishness, her clumsiness, her purity—how much care is packed into every movement…
A hundred points.
Nihaha…
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